


The Fabric Of The Universe

by sunsetblue



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gabe is Death, He's also a little shit, Jack is pretty much Johnny, M/M, Reaper76 - Freeform, kinda the devil went down to georgia but not really, surprise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 17:55:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13862880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetblue/pseuds/sunsetblue
Summary: Jack Morrison knows Death can't be fought with violence, so hopefully a serenade will work.More chapters coming soon!





	1. Chapter 1

Jack's mother worsens when winter rolls in. She's sleeping more, and Jack knows that she isn't lucid when he's feeding her, with the feverish mumblings in between spoonfuls of broth.

He's seen death before. It wasn't uncommon in rural Indiana, where doctors seemed to come an hour too late. It was only three years ago that his father had been called away by Gabriel's trumpet. Jack would not let his mother go so quickly.

In his youth, when summers were vibrant, and children wore smiles that seemed to last forever, Jack had befriended the town storyteller.

Reinhardt was a distinguished enough man, a German soldier that moved to this town a decade back and kept to himself. Eventually though, the children wore away the solemn outer layer of him, and convinced him (in the inexplicable way kids with gap toothed smiles and sunflower crowns do) to tell stories.

It became a regular thing, to show up around Reinhardt's porch at an hour before the sunset, and listen to the story of the day.

Children, of course, are naive things, and do not understand that stories contain truth. Sometimes it is warped, and sometimes, it is only a story because no-one will accept it as anything else.

Reinhardt, throughout his storytelling career, reused many of his stories, maybe twisting a detail or ending here or there to keep it interesting. 

However, there was one story he only told once.

It had been a melancholic afternoon, skies rolling over clouds like dead fish in a stagnant pond. There was tension in the congregation that morning, the humble church filled with whispers of omens and bad luck.

Reinhardt woke up with a pain in his back from a wound long since healed, aching with a memory that he could not scrub away with any amount of liquor.

But perhaps it was the liquor that loosened his tongue.

Only three kids showed up that evening, the rest preocuppied with family, or kept home because of superstition.

The rocking chair creaked under his weight, and, he imagined, the weight of his memories.

"It took three minutes for everyone to know something was wrong. The shooting stopped, and if you were stupid enough to look at the other side, you'd see them as almost a mirror image of us. I think some of us heard the bombs go off. I didn't, but I saw the result. White fell so fast you'd think it was the maw of a giant albino beast, and not just snow."

He sighed, and wiped his brow. Something registered in his brain that the alcohol was wearing off. But another part fought to continue, to say it aloud.

"I saw the next part clear as day, despite the stinging snow. 

Where before there was only blinding white, a black figure walked. No, glided. It bent down, and each person it touched, suddenly became something less. Some shot at it, but nothing happened. No one expected anything to happen. We all knew it was Death. 

Then the bugle boy stood up. God, I've never heard a sound like the song he played that day. Apparently Death hadn't either. It reached out, touched his forehead, and vanished. The bugle boy gave one more triumphant blare, and then coughed a scarlet spray, and collapsed."

Reinhardt only realized he was crying when he felt his tears soak through his jeans. He steeled himself, and continued with the story.

"I found out later that only four men had died that night, including the bugle boy. Three had died from hypothermia. The bugle boy had died from pulmonary trauma. They said it was as if he blew his heart and soul through that bugle. I think he did. I think he gave his life for two hundred thirty eight others."

The sky was darkening, in the period just before night, and the children took the silent cue to head home, and keep this story to themselves.

Jack never forgot.

And so, when his mother is pulled back into the lull of sleep, he pulls out the old violin case from the closet, and dusts it off.

There's a certain power that stirs in the maple, and when he wipes it down gently with a rag, it intensifies. The glaze holds a reflection of his haggard face, a tired, desperate strength. He gently thumbs the strings, and is surprised to feel that they are still taut and strong.

Five months, Doctor Ziegler had told him, on one of her rare trips down. She couldn't name the disease, much less provide a cure. Jack didn't blame her. That was two months ago, in September, when winter had not yet dug it's icy talons into Bloomington.

Three months left to practice.

Fortunately, the cold left his schedule open, in an inbetween of harvest and sowing.

Jack spent most of his time by his mother's side.

Sometimes he would talk about the past they shared, about his father, about days spent in sun golden wheat as one happy family.

And sometimes, he was quiet.

On those days, a murky depression seemed to seep from the walls, a viscous bile that ate away at hope. When his mother would slip from a fevered half consciousness to a deep sleep, Jack would grab the violin and bow, and head outside to practice.

The first time he drug the bow against the strings, it screeched like a barn owl.

He had been gentle afterwards, testing motions, testing speeds. He started to find fragments of melodyin his movements, and pieced them together.

He began to know the violin, feel the vibration of the strings. It became an extension of him throughout those months, and he would pour out his grief, anger, and hope to fuel it.

His mother steadily declined with the days, coming closer and closer to the end.

The last week of February, it began to rain.

The storm raced over the plains, herded by winds wanting to corral it in the mountains. Thunder became mustangs galloping over the hard Indiana earth, shaking every building in the town regardless of foundation.

Jack halted practicing, not able to go outside with the whiplike wind and bullets of rain. Instead, he sits on the floor by his mother's beside, waiting for Death to arrive.

He gets up only to relieve himself and get food. He does not sleep except for five minute naps with his hand wrapped around his mother's wrist.

The storm rages through the week. Power is lost, possessions are blown away. But still, the town is grateful for the storm, for the rain that softens the dirt, and makes it pliable for plowing. Seeds that have waited through winter will begin to germinate and bring back green to the red dust. 

The storm eventually tires, tempest tamed by age and thirst. His mother's  breathing is labored now, a ragged rattle of the lungs. 

The clouds start to dissipate that night, and for the first time in a week, the gentle light of the moon shines through the windows.

The soft silver rays sink into the maple body of the violin, and Jack keeps his eyes on it so he can ready the song when it is time.

There is no creak when the door opens. The moonlight no longer reaches the violin, and Jack doesn't need to look to know that it is Death in void entirety. 

His hands do not hesitate. The violin is swiftly tucked under his chin, and he begins to play.

The bow dances across the strings, waltzing, dipping, swaying, evoking tears and lullabies from silvered starlit memories. It rises and falls, and the strings are weeping with shared loss.

He switches to something faster, the beat of storms, of rapids and stampedes, a dust devil anger that eats away at sagebrush reason. It is a harsh, intoxicating sound, but Death does not yet want it, and so Jack spins the lightning song into a softer rhythm, one of mountain dawns and sunflowers after rain.

He eases hope from his instrument, a rising joy that bubbles to the surface of tangeability, and Death reaches out.

Jack does not stop playing, never faltering as a hand defines itself from ash and reaches towards him. He continues this chaotic birdsong melody, furthering it with children's laughter, summer sunsets, and the creak of his father's rocking chair.

It's a golden sound, and it begins to crackle between Death's fingertips. 

Jack sees it out of the corner of his eye, Death drawing the song from the air like cloth made of the sun, and he feels a tug at his heart.

He remembers Reinhardt's words.

"They said it was as if he blew his heart and soul through that bugle. I think he did. I think he gave his life for two hundred thirty eight others."

And he would too.

Jack pours his life into it now, shoves it into the song, and it takes a life it's own, that has seen good and bad, that has done good and bad, and would give itself away.

The notes take wings, and soar. They dive violently through his memories, through burials and whiskey fogged nights, and snap into days of cornfield picnics and his parents smiling warmly at his newest accomplishment.

He feels his heart coming closer to his chest, and it is almost a physical pull.

The song is bright in the air in front of him, a lightning strike held in Death's grasp, and Jack'll be damned if that isn't what life is.

He makes the strings tremble, preparing for the end. The rhythm rises steadily, and calmly. Jack pictures a cliff in his mind, the notes, footsteps up the mountain.

He pictures his father's tombstone. He dug the grave, and laid the body to rest. He pictures the ledge he and his mother mourned on.

The violin carries him to the edge, and the song reaches a sharp crescendo.

When Jack opens his eyes, Death is no longer there. His mother's breathing has eased, and Jack can finally rest.


	2. Chapter Two

Jack wakes up the next day to a room covered in honeydew light.

His mother is sitting up in bed with her glasses on, reading a book that had been gathering dust on the bedside table.

"Jack!" She exclaims with a warm grin. "I didn't want to wake you, but look!"

And Jack does. There's color to her face again, the spotted bronze of a life of cornfield summers, and her eyes are bright and lucid.

He stands up, leans down, and hugs her carefully. She's okay. Everything's alright now. 

And tears start to slip out, one by one, until it becomes a deluge. They sink into the fabric of his mother's shirt, and she tightens her hold, despite the weakness from months of bed rest.

"Oh Jack," she says, and knows what she must have burdened him with. She holds on as he sobs, trying her best to comfort him as they wrack his body.

Like all storms, his eventually stops. He parts the hold with tears streaks and a smile that holds the end of sadness.

The sun glints off of the violin, and Jack's mother turns to notice it.

"You know, when I was asleep, I heard the most beautiful song.."

Jack picks it up, and plays a tune simple and sweet. It does not have much anything in the way of intensity, the fusillade of last night having taken the brunt of his emotions.

The song does not last long, and his mother applauds as soon as the last note dissipates.

They talk for hours, only stopping so Jack can make a meal for the both of them, and when his mother can pick up the spoon by herself, Jack finds himself grinning.

It takes a few weeks to get things into somewhat of a routine. Doctor Ziegler comes over once a week to check that his mother has been adhering to her excersizes, and will not relapse into her sickness.

Jack knows she won't, but they check anyways.

He finds himself playing more. They are lighter tunes, encouraged by his mother, and occasionally, on her better days, he'll play a familiar song and she'll sing along.

The day that she makes it into town to go shopping with him is one of the best days of his life. The neighbors that had helped with food deliveries and donations for her medicine erupt into joy at the sight of Miss Mary, walking on her own two feet for the first time in half a year. They are swarmed with what Jack has to think is most of the town, but everyone is smiling, so no one minds.

By the time they get home, Jack realizes that they didn't get twenty percent of the groceries they needed, but he wouldn't have traded that day for most anything.

And when the sun sets, and the stars begin to appear like illuminated dewdrops, Jack realizes there's someone he needs to thank.

The note he leaves his mother the next morning reads this: 

"Going up the mountain, gonna visit Pa."

While the sun is still bleeding and struggling to rise, Jack makes the trek up the mountain to the gravesite. He is careful not to damage the violin.

He's walked this path many times before. Age and misfortune catches up with people, and his family is no exception to the rule.

When he arrives, he stands by his father's marker. "David Morrison" still looks freshly etched despite the exposure to nature's fury. He faces the charred stump of what was once a great oak, now an ashy throne.

When the wind brushes his face in a good luck kiss, he begins to play.

It is a swooping song of rest, a kind forgiveness to bestow on the weary, the wanderers who have tread too long. It is an invitation to let your worries and fears go, just for a moment.

Halfway through, there is a figure seated in the stump. Here, it does not so loom, and what appear to be limbs seem limp and tired. Jack smiles, and continues to play, glad that his thanks are heard.

There's something cinnamon and cactus fruit on the breeze, and it seems to guide the bow across the strings.

It also carries the song away when Jack seems fit to end it.

This time, Death does not disappear.

Instead, it stays in its seat, the blackened throne. It seems to look at the different graves, and Jack takes a closer look at it now that he does not have to focus on the music.

It looks to still be listening to the song, although Jack is no longer playing.

After a good minute or so, it rises from the stump, with some definition of grace.

"Thank you," it says in a gruff voice, and that is when Jack begins to call it, he.

There are certainly more details to him this time, Jack is sure he caught sight of a sharp jawline, but it was too quickly enshrouded in darkness to tell for certain.

Death wanders over to a marker, glancing his claws across the surface of the name. They linger before they drop, and Jack can't shake the feeling that it was a sad motion.

He watches as Death moves from grave to grave. 

"Not many people have serenaded me before," says Death, and light seems to glance off a wry grin before it is hidden again.

Jack covers the shock with a smile, which isn't hard to do.

"Most people don't have Mary Morrison as a mother."

Death turned to him. 

"Most people don't have Jack Morrison as a son, now do they?"

Death pauses.

"Thank you, Jack. I haven't had a rest in a long time."

Jack isn't able to open his mouth before Death leaves again.

He takes a few moments at his father's grave, maybe just because he needs to know that someone else was there.

He gets home at noon, to his mother tending to their garden, elbow deep in freshly churned soil.

When she sees him, her smile rivals the sun. "Jack, You came just in time! Now be a dear and help me finish transferring these daisies."

Jack, of course, puts the violin inside, and spends the rest of the day maintaining the garden with his mother.

When the sun sets, they sit on the porch with two cool glasses of sweet tea that feel nice against dirt worked hands.

Jack notices when his mother starts humming "Me and Little Andy," and he looks over to see her eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

"I'm proud of you, Jack," she says, watching as the deep coral of the sunset lost its grip on the sky.

They sit in a comfortable silence the rest of the sunset, no more words needed for the moment.

Eventually, the sun bleeds out, and stars begin to poke through. Jack and his mother head inside, clean up, and go to their beds.

Jack drops into sleep like tear into a pond, fluid and rippling.

There's a figure in Jack's dreams, maybe his father, or someone else buried. The faces keep shifting, and Jack keeps trying to figure out who it is and what they need, until suddenly he's in a field of sunflowers with the skeleton of a bull beside him.

The bull makes a heaving moment, as if it has sighed. The lungless breeze sways the stems of the flowers.

"I didn't expect to see you so soon," says Jack.

"I didn't expect you to be a smartass," replies Death, with a surprising amount of snark, considering he's appearing in the form of cow bones.

There's a comfortable silence, and Jack is content to rest with the entity beside him.

The skeleton lays his head down in the grass.

"Two million seven hundred thousand three hundred eighty one deaths today," he says in a weary tone. 

"One hundred seventy thousand four hundred and two, human," he continues.

Jack leans back in the dirt, and crosses his legs.

"How many born?" he asks, looking at the dance of the sunflowers.

The spine twists so that the skull faces him. "Not my job to count."

"Maybe you should," says Jack with half a grin. "So you know what to expect."

The skull rests in the dirt again. "Keep this up, and I'll leave."

"Then who will I share these lovely sunflowers with?"

Death huffs. "This is a dream. As soon as I go, they do too."

Jack lays down in the grass and earth, and yawns.

"Sleeping in a dream?'

Jack yawns again for extra measure. "Unless you want to talk."

"Jesus Christ"

"You're the last person I'd expect to hear that from."

"I'm Death, not Satan. Big difference."

Jack looks up at the cloudless sky and smiles as the wind tickles the field of flowers.

"Mighty nice day you've made."

Though there are no eyes in the sockets of the cow skull, Jack is sure that Death is looking up.

"I suppose. I've seen better."

"Well there are always better things. I could be having a dream involving Johnny Cash and a can of whipped cream instead of this, but I'm not going to complain."

The skeletal tail whips at an unseen pest.

"Would you rather have that dream?"

Jack laughs.

"God no. I'm plenty fine with this, believe me."

Jack can only guess at the rest of the time they spent in that field. His final answer is anywhere from five minutes to a decade.

Eventually, the bones rise with a rattle.

"Time for me to go," says Death, back in his usual form, and Jack is sure that right before he woke, there was a smile.

That day, after he has dazed off enough to thoughts about skulls and sunflowers, Jack starts sowing the fields.

The soil is dry, and the sun beats down on him. The tractor prevents him from the afternoon heat, but when it starts to slide off to the west, it glares at him again. Jack perseveres with the knowledge that the stalks will rise, and he will be able to plan the annual corn maze with his mother after skipping last year.

He heads back to the house once darkness begins to take away the light he needs to see by. The aroma of steak and mashed potatoes would've lured anyone into the cabin, and Jack is suddenly very appreciative of the fact he lives there.

The sight of dinner on the table greets Jack upon entrance, and at that point he may as well be floating cartoonishly towards it.

His mother sits down with her own meal, and beams at him. "You would not believe what Miss O'Leary wore to the bank today," she gossips as she starts sawing at a piece of steak.

"Oh?" Asks Jack, delighted that his mother is getting back to her old habits.

"Oh, indeed," she clarifies with a solemn nod and grin she could not hide.

Jack takes a bite of steak, and swallows. "Spill."

"It was this tragic leapord print number. I swear, it was half fabric, half glitter! Absolutely heart wrenching."

Jack shakes his head, smiling, before he dives back into the meal.

Afterwards, he washes the dishes while his mother retires to her bedroom.

He whistles as he works, an old compulsion of his. He goes through five songs before he finishes on the tail end of Highwayman.

He showers, enjoying the cool water after the the sunny day, and then goes to sleep.

That night, Death does not come.

Instead, Jack has a twisted dream of cornfields and sunflowers, decaying and then being reborn in the same soil they gave life to. He sees a centuries old tree that has reached its knotted and weary limbs to the edges of the sky, only to be cleaved by lightning.

He sees his father, dangling his legs on the edge of a cliff, before looking back and falling off.

Jack looks over to see him cradled by wildflowers and bones. His father waves, and the ground crumbles beneath Jack, until he too is falling, tumbling-

Jack wakes up in a cold sweat.


	3. Chapter Three

Jack doesn't see Death for a week. He supposes it's for the best, considering how busy he is with the farm.

Every day is more or less the same. Wake up before dawn. Get dressed. Eat oatmeal for breakfast. Get on the tractor. Work. Clean up. Eat Dinner. Talk. Go to sleep.

He manages to find some time to himself on Sunday. He decides to practice a couple of songs on the violin, since the poor thing hasn't been used all week.

He has himself settled into a jaunty tune that could be a great drinking song when he hears a knock at the door.

Jack sets the violin down, and opens the door to find Doctor Ziegler, right on time for his mother's weekly appointment.

"Jack!" She exclaims with a bright smile. "I didn't realize that you played the violin, and so well too!"

Jack rubbed the back of his neck. "I only really started playing, ma'am," he says with a bashful smile.

"You sound amazing, would you mind playing for my niece's wedding? They haven't found anyone yet, but they would be delighted with you! And," she says with a smaller grin, "it pays fairly well."

God, that cinched it for Jack. Even with the generosity of their friends, his mother's medical bills still ate at the edges of their happiness.

"I'll do it," he promises with a grateful smile on his face.

"Great," she nods. "It is on the twenty third, and I will probably pick you up from here at six a.m. Does that sound alright?" 

"Yeah, sounds amazing," Jack says.

"Well am I going to get examined, or is my son better than me at that too?" asks his mother from the doorway where she is leaning.

Doctor Ziegler smiles. "I'll be with you right now, Miss Mary."

Jack waves at them as they head into the master bedroom.

With his day free and job procured, he decides to head into town to bide his time. 

He looks through the small boutique they have in town, for something formal to wear to his first gig. There's something that tells him that perhaps his Sunday best just won't be enough. And so, he finds nothing that's his size and nice enough for a wedding.

Jack wanders around town a bit more, until he decides to head home again, and maybe prepare a nice dinner.

When he arrives, Doctor Ziegler has already left.

He's taking chicken breasts out of the freezer to thaw as the sun begins to exist in that that pre sunset zone.

Mary walks in as he begins to season it.

"So Doctor Ziegler told me about the job," she says, eyebrow quirked.

Jack almost rests his head in his hands before he remembers that they're covered in raw chicken and spices.

"Aw ma, sorry I didn't tell y-"

"I think it's a wonderful idea! You're finally getting out again," she says, fake punching his arm, "who knows, maybe some young pretty thing will catch your eye."

He tries not to wince. It wasn't that his mother didn't know he didn't exactly feel attracted to ladies, she did. In fact, she fully supported him.

Maybe just a little.. too much sometimes.

"Well in any case," she says, walking away towards her room. "I can't exactly have you wear plaid to a black tie affair."

Jack goes back to preparing the chicken, until she comes back with a beautiful blue suit.

He knows immediately what it is. Who it belonged to. Hell, the picture is on the mantle forty feet away.

His mother has a proud, sad smile on her face.

"He'd love to know that you wore this suit in such a big moment."

Jack opens his mouth, but finds nothing to say.

She nods at his shock, sets the suit down, and hugs him, careful to avoid his nasty chicken fingers. 

"I'll go put it in your closet," she says, and Jack allows one tear to slip past his mind.

Later, they enjoy dinner, and laugh, and sleep.

Death does not visit.

Jack works the next two days, although the routine is no longer so demanding on his body.

His night are dreamless, and he wakes up from Tuesday's sleep at four in the morning to prepare himself for what will surely be a riot of a day.

Mary, of course, helps him, all the while cooing about what a handsome man he has grown into.

The suit fits him well, except for the shoulder, which is a bit tight.

But Jack is too anxious to mind.

Doctor Ziegler, or Angela, as she insists he call her at the wedding, arrives at six o' clock on the dot, as she tended to do.

"Nice suit, Jack!" She shouts from the drivers side. "Hop in!"

Jack grins, puts the violin in the trunk, and slides in the passenger side.

"Can't believe I'm going to do this. I mean, I haven't really played for an audience," he says, combing his fingers through his hair in an attempt to make it look presentable. God, did he need a haircut.

Angela gives him a pointed look. "Put your seat belt on. And I'm sure it'll be fine, you sound great!"

Jack sighs, and makes a big show of clicking in his seat belt. Angela sarcastically grins, and then begins the drive.

They make small talk as they pass through the countryside and into the city.

"Now the first song should be slow," Angela reiterates, "but there need to be a couple fun ones afterwards, alright?"

"Alright," answers Jack, nervously tapping on the armrest.

They arrive at the venue, a grand dance hall, at eight twenty six. Jack, like the gentleman his parents  raised him to be, opens the door for Angela before grabbing the case from the trunk.

He is welcomed into the building with warm smiles and open arms.

"Ah so you're the violin player!" Exclaims one woman. She nudges Angela. "You never told me he was a looker."

Jack could feel his cheeks warming as soon as the words dropped from her lips. "Ma'am, what would you like me to help with before the ceremony?" He asked, trying his best not to look as nervous as he felt.

The woman's eyes lit up. "Oh that'd be great! You can help us finish hanging up the decorations."

She eyed the case. "You can sit that down in the corner, is that okay?"

He smiled. "Yes ma'am, perfectly fine."

Jack lays the case gently down in the corner, and starts helping a man introduced to him as Frank, hang the streamers from the great ceiling of the hall.

He's precariously perched on a ladder, with duct tape on seven fingers and three on his chin when Julie, the woman who greeted him, calls everyone to the center.

"Alright everyone, I just got word that we have an hour left before the crowd begins to arrive, so we need to wrap things up now! Remember, it's an open bar at reception!"  

There are a few chuckles, and then the whirlwind starts as panic rises in the crew. Jack rushes to help, but is stopped by a mustachioed man.

He lays a hand on Jack's shoulder. "Hey kid, we got this. Go practice a bit and relax. Tense people don't make as nice music," the man says, patting his back, and then hustling off to whatever job he was assigned.

Jack hesitantly goes over to the case, picks it up, and takes it out to a smaller patio area on the side of the building. He's about to set it down, when he sees a small gazebo partially veiled by small trees and growth.

Impulse grabs him, and he heads over to it, delighted to find that the growth has not weakened the structure, only concealed.

He opens the case delicately, balancing it on the worn, once white railing. He takes out the violin and bow with a cautious hand, and begins to practice.

He plays Unforgettable, the slow song,  and does not take so many liberties since Julie told him that there would be a singer.

He hears the words in his head, and almost, but not quite, mouths them.

Fishin' In The Dark is next, and then Dixieland Delight.

Jack takes a while playing with Blackbird, when he hears his name called from the porch.

With a deep exhale and mental toughening, he packs up his instrument, and heads back in.

Frank shows him the platform he'll be performing on. Not a minute after, Julie and a couple others come over to make sure that everything is set up perfectly.

Jack assures them that everything is going well, and looks up to see Angela giving him a thumbs up.

He's about to return it, but a brunette with short hair in a fitting tux turns her attention away.

Their lips are too far away to read, and he can't hear them over the excited chatter of the rest of the crew, but that proves to not be a problem when they start heading directly towards him.

"Jack!" Angela beams, almost shoving Energetic Brunette towards him. "This is Lena, the singer you'll be working with!"

"Hiya, love," Lena says in a shockingly British accent. Jack takes a moment to respond, and sticks out his hand.

"Hi, nice to meet you," he says, wincing. He must've looked like an idiot with the surprised look he knew was plastered on his face only a moment earlier.

Lena grins conspiratorially and shakes his hand. "Just between me and you, love," she says, leaning towards him, "I tend to drop the accent when I sing."

Jack mouths a very pointed "oh", before dropping his hand down to his side. 

"So what's the plan for tonight?" She asks, peeking at the case.

Jack hesitates. "Well I had planned to start with Unforgettable for the first dance, but I can play most anything?" He said anxiously looking at her facial expressions.

Lena beams. "Sounds fantastic! Don't worry about my song knowledge though, love. I've had enough time to listen to most everything."

He breathes a sigh of relief, and then in busts at least sixty well dressed people, with who can only be the newlyweds in the center.

Lena sits down on the small bench they have, and signals Jack to sit down as well.

They wait a good hour and a half, applaud and cheer at the right moments, and then Jack catches the tail end of a sentence.

"-irst dance!"

Shit, that's his cue. He readies the violin with practiced hands, and on Lena's count, starts.

He plays longingly and woefully, and notices only when he's halfway through, that Lena does, indeed, drop the accent. 

The song ends, of course, on a shared love, and then everyone else joins the dancers.

He begins Through the Years, and Lena sticks to her promise.

Jack smiles when he sees everyone laughing and dancing wildly. It's a joyous occasion, and the hum of the place certainly shows it.

Hours later, when Jack is exhausted and Lena is one song away from hoarse, the event ends. 

Julie comes over, swaying more than a sober woman would, and hands him an envelope full of cash.

"Angela was right," she says before yawning. "Pretty damn good singer."

She totters off to shoo out other stragglers, and leaves Jack to thumb through the contents of the envelope.

"This is too much," he murmurs, "I have to-"

He's interrupted by a hand on his shoulder.

"Believe me, love, you're plenty better than most other guys I've seen," Lena says, back in her usual chipper voice. "Now I'd adore sticking around and chatting up a storm, but I promised Emily a romantic dinner on my paycheck."

"See you around," Jack says, and Lena smiles before jogging off.

He packs up his violin, when he realizes that he hasn't seen Angela since most everyone left.

Which meant that he didn't have a ride.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> have fun with this weird frankenstein chapter

Jack grabs the case, and heads to the porch outside.

The stars are nice, he supposes. It's a nice night over all, he just really wishes that he wouldn't have to walk for most of it.

The moonlight on the white of the gazebo catches his eye again, and he can't help wandering over to it.

He sets the case down inside, leans precariously on the railing, and takes a deep breath.

"It's been a while," says Death, standing in the middle of the gazebo.

Jack smiles.

"Not my fault."

"Perhaps," Death says, crossing his arms. "But I'm not the one without a ride."

"Are you offering?" Jack asks, staring at a more defined form of shadow that has features catching moonlight for a second before letting it go.

Death turns towards the case.

"Perhaps I could be persuaded to drop you off along my way."

Jack unlocks the case, and picks up the violin and bow.

For half a second, the silvered light reflects off of a smile on a silhouette face.

There's a song that drifts over mountains, that dips into valleys and oceans. Hands no longer weary tell of it, how it rests in dormant volcanoes and the hearts of doves.

It finishes in the core of nature, falling to a swooping doze. The violin and bow are swiftly packed afterwards.

"Take my hand," whispers Death in his time roughened voice, outstreching a palm and fingers that are, for a moment, not hard and clawed. 

Jack grabs it with his own, and Death's hand is neither warm nor cold, but not unpleasant.

When they disappear, it feels like all of Jack's atoms condense, repel, and then bind back together. And when they reform, Death still has his grip on Jack's hand.

He lets go when two children run towards them chattering in Spanish. 

"¡Hola señor Gabriel!" One says, tugging at Death's hand.

"Ven, ven, mamá está empeorando," says the other in a frightened tone, which makes Jack shake off the absurdity of the situation and follow them with grave focus. The children start to run, occasionally turning back to make sure that the others are following, sometimes halting to tug at arms and sleeves to go faster.

Sleeves? Jack tries to get glimpses of Death, which is proven difficult with the maze of alleyways and obstacles. He finds that Death is not in the shadowy form he used only minutes ago. 

Instead, he is a trench coated man, with dark skin and darker eyes. The glow of streetlamps and neon lights reflect on fully formed features, not the typical vague glimpses. Jack catches sight of a beanie covered head, a goatee, and a strong nose.

The children, one boy, one girl, Jack can see that now, skid to a stop in front of a battered door. They open it and rush to a bedridden woman, who weakly coughs.

Sickness pools in the pit of Jack's stomach, as he's reminded of the battle he faced not five months ago.

Death sighs as he rests his hand on the woman's shoulder, the two kids crowding him. Something like black smoke, but heavier, rolls from his hand.

The woman's breathing eases, but Death's face does not. He beckons for Jack to follow him out of the home. The children still watch who must be their mother, and their eyes have too much pain for their ages.

Jack doesn't obey.

He picks up his violin and starts out a lifting tune. The kids turn towards him, and the light returns to their eyes.

"¡Otro ángel!" The girl exclaims in awe.

They clap as he continues, rising in vibrancy and happiness. He ends with a flourish, and both children hug him before pretending to play on their own imaginary violins.

Jack turns to see Death in the doorway, like a parody of the first time they met.

"Music is the fabric of the universe," he says as Jack approaches him, "maybe it can patch up the holes one day."

"One day," Jack affirms.

Death leads them back to the alleyway they appeared in.

"They need their mother," Death says as they walk. "Destiny calls them, but they may stray without her."

"She isn't healed?" 

"No. I can only help them live if that is what they want as well. I ease her pain."

Death looks at him.

"Thank you for what you did back there. I am not able to give them hope like that."

Jack smiles. "A song is a small price to pay for happiness."

"Or perhaps you are just a generous man."

"Why'd they call you Gabriel?" Jack asks after a period of silence.

"Because they think I'm the angel. The Messenger, who comes to tell them of good news."

"It's a nice enough name," Jack comments.

"I suppose," Death says. "It has a certain charm to it that is not entirely unlikeable."

They reach the spot from whence they came, and Death takes Jack's hand.

The vanishing catches Jack off guard again, and when they reappear, he realizes how strongly his grip on Death's hand is.

They're in the driveway in front of his house, and his hand is let go.

"See you soon, Gabriel?" Jack asks with a hopeful grin.

"Perhaps," says Death, but there is a twinkle in his eye that makes a promise with Jack.

The twinkle disappears with the rest of him, but Jack feels something linger in this moment.

He takes a minute to appreciate the night, and go over the events of the day, and then heads in.

After he begins his sleep, he has a dream of hesitant hands and promises that he can't quite remember. 

Mary makes him take the day off. Jack complains briefly, but when he yawns in the middle of a sentence, her point is proven.

There's a partially completed puzzle on the table. Something with puppies, Jack thinks, but there's not enough for him to be sure. Mary occasionally fills in a section when she passes it, and he does the same.

Most of the day is spent outside, in gardens or town.

Jack supposes that while it is a nice day, most of his happiness comes from the events of last night.

Every time he turns a corner, he runs smack into a cobweb of memory, and watches as fragments of emotion and sound embed themselves in his core.

His mother notices, of course, and she does so with a happy smile, thankful that her boy has something good to remember.

They run errands in town, finally stocking up on groceries and clothes, and of course running into friends and neighbors. After finishing the shopping list, they both head back home to put everything away.

At some point around four, Jack finds himself dazing off on the porch swing. His head is filled with songs and smiles and sunflowers and-

There's a new weight on the swing beside him.

He doesn't open his eyes.

"You're going to die," says the voice next to him.

"Most everyone does," says Jack, serenely. "Hope I live a good one before I go, though."

"You're beautiful," says the voice, much softer now.

There's a pause. Jack swallows. "That's new."

He opens his eyes, and looks at the other occupant of the bench.

Gabriel is leaning back in the human form Jack saw last night. He looks tired, as if there's a war that's been raging inside of him for too long.

"You aren't too bad yourself," Jack says, and Gabriel sighs.

"Most people don't think so. I believe you weren't too fond of me when I was on your mother's doorstep."

Jack sits up. "I never thought you were bad. I just thought Mom deserved a better run. She wasn't really at peace with going, no matter how many times she told me she was."

"I have taken countless others who were not willing, what makes your mother any different?"

"You tell me," says Jack, returning to his previous slouch. "You're the one who spared her."

They sit in silence for a while. Jack closes his eyes again, and is almost eased into sleep.

Gabriel shifts.

"It's not that easy, you know. I don't choose to take. The Universe requires a cycle of energy, and I have to make sure that it does not still. Life force tends to be the most effective, but sometimes," he says, looking at Jack, "I get offered something more potent. Future actions, knowledge, emotion, channelled into almost a pure form."

"Hm," Jack says, and leaves it at that. 

There is a perturbed look on Gabriel's face, but it flickers by so quickly that Jack cannot be sure it existed.

They sit on the bench a while longer, letting momentum and time ease the chains into a swing.

Gabriel lets his head hang back, the ends of his black coat fluttering in the butterfly breezes that seem to swoop past.

At some point, Gabriel leaves. Jack decides to stay for a little while longer.

The winds carry stories and songs. He grew up listening to tree leaves rustling to interpret them. Jack wonders how many times stories about Gabriel have passed through the trees he knows.

An oak leaf plasters itself on his face, and he smiles before tucking it away and heading inside.

Dinner is a stew, hearty and rich, the conversation he has with his mother isn't much different. He heads upstairs after washing dishes, fixing to have a nice end to a nice day.

Jack removes the leaf from the pocket of his jeans, and places it on his dresser. It rocks back and forth for a moment, and then gradually stills. He traces the raised veins on it with his calloused finger, gently following the lines before pulling his hand away.

The drawer with his sleep clothes requires a hard tug to open it, giving him the thought about fixing it that he gets every night. He changes into his flannel pants and t shirt, and then goes to brush his teeth

When he returns, Jack peels back the comforter atop his bed, and something compels him to look outside the window.

In the moonlight, he sees edges of the oak that's been around longer than his parents. Its spring budding bones still look strong and healthy, holding the scraped memories of everyone who has rested in its limbs.

It takes him a while to see the owl.

It's a barn owl if he's not mistaken, what with the framed face and sharp features. Light catches its face when it turns, and it almost looks like a mask with the contrast between shadow and moonwhite. The owl opens and closes its beak while staring him down, and Jack can only assume that it's hooting at him. 

He hoots back, and then laughs, because what grown person hoots at an owl?

The laughing stops, and he wipes a tear from his eye. He looks back at the tree, and the owl is gone. There are still scratches on the branch from its talons, though, and that is what Jack thinks about on his journey into sleep.

His alarm goes off at four, and his hand automatically slaps at the power button.

The crunch he feels however, is not the power button, and he looks over as the alarm blares to see what the cause is.

The leaf that he swears he left on the dresser is now on top of the alarm, albeit mildly cracked. Jack pick it up delicately, and flips it between his fingers. 

There are words scratched into the underside:

Where do you want to go?


End file.
